The Kids, They Understand
by Daria234
Summary: AU where John is killed in the fire and Mary raises Dean and Sam. She tries to make sure they're never raised like she was, so she tries not to let them know where she goes and what she hunts.


Author's Note: Written in response to prompting at comment_fic on lj. Prompt was John dies instead of Mary.

Fic:

Mary learns that she talks in her sleep early on. Her children stare at her when she wakes up from a nightmare, and as she smiles at them, trying to reassure, Sam asks "Who's yellow eyes?" before Dean covers his mouth and pulls him away.

Even at his young age, Dean knows that questions bring her pain.

She tries to be open with them, to let her children know her, even as she keeps a part of her soul blocked off from them, the part that wonders if maybe vengeance and violence aren't a better answer to evil than hiding. After all, evil found her before, and John - the innocent one- had paid the price.

So she tries to strike a balance. She keeps the hunting to a minimum. She can't give it up entirely, the leads, the rumors, not while that thing was still out there - that thing that took her John, that thing that seemed sure to have plans for her children. But she made friends she could leave them with, and tried hard not to pick the hunt over a normal life for her kids. She sometimes sees other hunters, the ones who keep their families at arm's length - as if that will make it any easier when they go down - and she knows she can't do that. Not to her boys, not to herself.

Until at a hunt in Rhode Island, she wonders if she should have been a little more distant, wonders if being 'open' might hurt her kids after all. Dean, all of 13 years old, shows up at her Providence motel, Sammy in tow, saying that Sammy missed her and kept crying at night and so they tracked her down. Dean had learned to drive from a neighbor that repaired classic Mustangs - there was no keeping that boy away from cars - and he had apparently 'borrowed' a neighbor's vehicle to get there,' somehow managing to track her even though she said she was on a business trip in Montana. She smiled at them even though she wanted to scream at them for doing something so dangerous, wanted to cry and ask Dean why he was so good at tracking when she had tried so damn hard to never teach him how. But she knew that Dean knew her, knew how she thought, better than anyone living, and so she didn't ask. She hugged them and told them never to do it again, and she called another hunter in to finish the job as soon as they were tucked into the motel beds.

She was more careful after that, more discreet. But she couldn't stop. Not when they still wanted her Sam -- and she kept hearing things that indicated that someone did. So she kept looking, kept networking with other hunters, made friends, with Bobby Singer, who was grouchy but kind and took the boys in even after he tried to refuse to baby-sit on the grounds that he wasn't any good with kids. She met the Harvelles who had a daughter about Sam's age, and she liked them; they were solid people, committed to the hunt but putting their family first; they weren't about to raise a hunter either. In fact, none of Mary's hunter friends would ever breathe a word about the business to Dean or Sam.

And Mary thought for a long time that she had gotten good at keeping secrets from her children.

* * *

When Sam was 11 years old, Mary found out that fires and powers followed people with Sam's birthday. She didn't know what to think. So she put the information in the usual hiding place and tried to act like a normal mom until she could figure something out, get more info, do more research.

The next day, Dean was gone. No note.

Sammy was a reluctant witness, but she always managed to get an answer out of him eventually.

This time the answer just about killed her.

Dean had went to learn to be a hunter. He said he was going to find someone who could train him, make it so he could help Mary protect Sam. He promised to be back by Sam's birthday next month, Sam told her, as if that made it okay.

She told Sam he had five minutes to pack a bag and get in the car so they could find Dean.

"Dean said not to tell you-" Sam tried.

"Dean is not the parent!" she yelled, then calmed herself and told her younger one to get ready.

Right before they left, the phone rang. "Dean?" Mary yelled.

"He's here," Ellen Harvelle's voice said. "Thought the roadhouse was some kind of prep school for salt and burn. Ash can handle the bar while I drag Dean's teenage ass back home."

Mary breathed in and out, so relieved she would have cried if Sammy weren't staring at her worried-looking. "No, thank you, thank you SO much for calling, just keep him there, we'll be there soon."

"Up to you. Look, Mary, he's a real good kid. Cocky as heck, but a good kid. Not that I didn't yell at him plenty, making you worry like that."

Mary smiled, "Thanks, Ellen. For everything. We'll be there soon."

* * *

On the long drive home, there was much silence. Sam was pretending to sleep though they all knew he wasn't.

Finally Dean spoke. "I know, Mom."

"You know about what I do," she said, glancing at him. Her lips were tight, but not in anger.

"I know about it all," Dean said, face too burdened for a teenager.

Mary kept her eyes on the road, kept the water from blurring her eyes' vision.

"Mom, you're not alone. You always say that we're a family, we stick together. And I know you're a good hunter. I heard Bobby Singer say you were the best. And Uncle Bobby doesn't exactly give compliments like they're candy. I only ran because I didn't think you would want to help me. But you should. You should teach me how to be a --."

"No," she said, trying to sound firm but not cruel.

"But Mom-"

"No! No, Dean! You away from home! You ran away from US!" she said, not caring any more if it hurt Dean's feelings. She pulled over since her eyes were full bleary now.

"Mom, I want to hunt!"

"No! You don't know-"

"I know you save people! I know that monsters are real and that people would be sitting ducks without hunters!"

Mary closed her eyes. Dean had always watched her closely, even as a baby, his eyes following her around a room. She shouldn't have been so careless, shouldn't have thought there would be anything her older son wouldn't notice.

"Dean-" she said and her voice broke. She didn't even turn her head to look at him, but from his voice she knew that Dean was crying too.

"Mom, every night I tell Sammy what Dad was like. How happy he was, how nice he was. Because it's not fair that Sammy will never know that. Because some DEMON took Dad from us. He was your husband but he was my dad, and I'm not a kid any more! I have a right to do this, just as much as you do! So you can stop me now and when I turn 18 I'll leave and learn on my own and not be very good. Or you can teach me. Please, Mom," he said, and he grabbed her shoulder so she turned to him, had to look him square.

Her son. Crying. Because she had left him defenseless against a world of monsters that she knew was there.

"You don't know what you're asking," she said, and her words felt useless, felt too thin to speak her desperation. She tried to think of what she had done wrong, to bring them here, what other path she could have chose. But all she could do was play the role she knew: " I am your mother! And I can't let this-"

"Mom, please -- please don't tell me that you can go out and maybe get hurt or who knows what and that I'm not allowed to know or help or have your back. Don't say that to me," Dean said. He was pleading with her now, and she wished she had gotten better at saying no to him. She was always bad at saying no.

And she knew this was on her. She knew it was unfair the way Dean had to take care of his younger sibling after school, the way he had been not just a son but a friend to her - always, but especially during those early years after John when she felt too aching and angry to open up to anyone but her sons. It was no wonder he felt a sense of responsibility, a need to be more than just a teenage boy. She tried to say this, that she understood but she wouldn't let him become this, that most hunters end up too much like the things they hunt - that if it weren't for Sam and him needing her, she would have too -- but she couldn't find the words.

"Mom, I'm sorry, I know you hate this," Dean said, calm now, as if he could sense that he might win this argument. "Look you can tell me not to, forbid it, but you didn't raise me to just obey other people's orders. You always taught me to choose the life I want for myself. And I want to learn this. Maybe I won't be a hunter, but I at least want to know how to defend myself and Sammy. You know this is a good idea. In case someone comes for Sammy when you're not here. In case someone else needs protecting. I'm old enough, Mom. And I'm doing this. So you can teach me, or you can let me learn from someone else who may not care if I survive or not. But I'm doing this. I'm sorry, but I am." Dean's voice cracked, but Mary could tell that his resolve didn't. She started to sob, and Dean's hands came up to comfort her, to hug her shoulders, and then Sam's did too, his smaller arms reaching around her, his voice saying, "Don't be sad, Mommy, it'll be okay."

She cried until she couldn't. Then she said nothing, willed herself to calm down enough to drive, and got back on the road in their silent car.

* * *

The next evening, Mary showed Dean how to use a shotgun. She set a line of bottles to aim at on the back fence.

Dean hit every one perfectly.

Then he smiled at her, all teeth and freckles and joy.

Mary felt a pull in her abdomen. Vomit wanting to come out.

She put on her best mom face, smiled at him and said, "Good job!"

As Dean continued to practice, Mary saw Sam watching Dean from the window. No surprise there; Sam always watched Dean. Close and eager, the way Dean watched Mary.

And in a flash of understanding, horrible and honest, Mary knew what would be. Sam would want Dean to teach him to hunt. And at first, Dean would be protective, would say that Sammy's too young. Then Sam would give Dean the puppy eyes and it would be all over. Whether she tried to stop it or not, where one of her boys went, so did the other.

Another line of perfect shots, then Dean grinning at her again, grateful and happy. She smiled back, and it was unconvincing, but Dean was satisfied. He went to collect the shells as Sam ran out, yelling, "Do it again, Dean! Show me!"

Mary watched her boys then, Dean ruffling Sam's hair, Sam pretending not to like it, the two of them laughing as Dean carefully set the weapon down pointed away from Sam. The sun was setting over her house - her picture-perfect, _normal_ house, and her two boys were playing and laughing, and soon they would go in and have dinner. On the surface, it was like every other night. It was nearly everything she ever wanted, what she had worked for and bled for and shot for.

But now, as the redding light came down into their yard, as all the shadows grew longer, she wondered if everything she had worked for would mean anything at all.


End file.
